Page 1 of Tattered Edges

Isealedthelastbox closed, then set aside the tape dispenser and surveyed my surroundings.

This was happening.

I was moving.

Not across town or to another state. I was leaving the country.

Whether or not I’d come back with my tail between my legs was anyone’s guess. But I’d made up my mind. Moreover, I’d jumped through all the hoops to make it legal.

In forty-eight hours, I would be seated in premium economy headed for London, England.

I wasn’t exactly a minimalist, but I didn’t have an overwhelming number of things. At least, not an overwhelming number of things I planned on taking with me. I’d already sold most of my furniture, and I was donating a bunch of odds and ends, wishing to start fresh across the pond. The majority of my wardrobe fit into the luggage I’d travel with, and what was left—mainly shoes, my collection of books, and keepsakes—would be shipped to my new address.

Thirty-One, St. Andrew’s Hill.

I’d never actually been to England, but Google Maps assured me my flat was located in a decent part of town. I would be a stone’s throw away from St. Paul’s Cathedral and the River Thames. There was a local grocery chain nearby and a coffee shop that appeared to be a promising spot to grab a latte in walking distance. The Blackfriars Underground stop wasn’t far, either.

It had been a long time since I’d lived in a truly walkable city, and I was looking forward to it.

That very morning, I’d sold my car. I wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

It was the beginning of a new year and the start of my life’s next chapter.

This was happening.

I was moving.

Not across town or to another state. I was leaving the country.

Where I was going, French fries were chips and chips were crisps and rather than a president there was a prime minister.

And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

A knock sounded at my door. I was quick to maneuver my way around the cardboard obstacle course I’d constructed over the last several days. I didn’t bother checking the peephole, certain there was only one person it could be. I swung open the door with a smile, and the pathetic expression I found on Diane’s face morphed my smile into a grin as I laughed.

“Get in here. Don’t be like that,” I insisted, grabbing hold of her wrist and pulling her over the threshold.

“Do you know what time it is over there right now?Three A.M.And do you know what that means? By the time I close the gallery, and I want to call you to shoot the shit, because I will no longer get to shoot the shit with you all day at work, you will be sleeping.

“I know I’ve had weeks to wrap my head around this, but it’s just now starting to sink in that while we might have all the technology necessary to keep in touch, we can’t cheattime.”

I admired my best friend, who stood in the middle of what used to be the living room in my cozy one-bedroom apartment. She was the only woman I knew who could pull off bangs over the age of thirty, and she wore her long, wavy, brunette hair loose. She was still dressed in her work attire, her style as eclectic and unique as the pieces she sold at her gallery. The floral print jumper she wore underneath her pretty, blue velvet blazer clashed in a way that worked because she was confident enough, or perhaps defiant enough, to insist upon it.

Diane and I met in class our freshman year at Berkeley, and we’d been almost like sisters ever since. Any angst she harbored over my departure was merely a reminder of how much we meant to each other.

This wasn’t going to be the first time life separated us. After we’d completed our undergrad, we shared an apartment in San Francisco for a couple of years. Then she met Brady, the love of her life. When work relocated him to Palo Alto, she went with him and then married him. It wasn’t until my stint at Stanford that we once again resided close enough that we didn’t have to flip a coin to decide who was going to have to endure an hour in traffic for us to go grab a drink together.

But there was a huge difference between forty miles andfive thousandof them.

“We’re going to figure it out,” I assured her. “We will,” I insisted, this time reassuring myself. “You’re my family, and you know that. I’m not leaving you behind.”

She studied me carefully for a moment, then looked around the room at my assortment of boxes.

“You know, when you told me you were going, it didn’t exactly come as a shock. You’ve always been daring and a little impulsive. It’s actually something I admire about you. But I think there was a small part of me that thought you’d chicken out this time. Because—”

“Because I’m picking up my entire life to move to a country I’ve never seen and manage a business I inherited two months ago from a dead man who claims to have been the father I never knew? Yeah. Trust me, I don’t need you to remind me how crazy this sounds. I’m living it. And maybe it all blows up in my face and I live to regret it but—but what if I don’t?”

I was self-aware enough to admit I’d spent the last thirteen years trying to escape my mother.

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